


Someone to Watch Over

by Selenay



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Clint Barton Angst, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Clint and Phil need to hug each other, Coulson With a Cane, Fix-It, Get Together, M/M, Phil Coulson Needs a Hug, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 16:05:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/915223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-movie fix-it. Phil needs someone to stay in his apartment with him before the doctors will sign the forms to release him from SHIELD medical.</p><p>Clint doesn't know why he's helping or why it's so important to him because he's fine, everything is just fine. Phil doesn't need Clint's help because he's fine, everything is just fine.</p><p>Except for when it isn't and it turns out they both need more than they're willing to admit to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [what_alchemy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_alchemy/gifts).



> This is my AO3 auction fic for what_alchemy, who has been incredibly patient with the delays on it. The prompt was for pining and angst and post-op care with Clint volunteering to help while Phil resists help with all his might. Hopefully this fits the bill!
> 
> Raiining was fantastic and patient when I threw a bunch of questions at her about healing times and recovery stages from open heart surgery and so on. Any mistakes are my own, but she tried really hard to help me avoid too many. Fahre was the best beta a girl could want on this, including slapping me upside the head when the first draft needed heavy revisions and then cheerleading me through them. This fic wouldn't be anything without her, thank you.
> 
> Lastly, thank you to the moderators and organisers of the AO3 auction who took on far more than they ever expected and created a great experience for all of us.

Phil Coulson dreamt in blue.

His dreams were all flashes of blue and grey and echoing, cruel laughter that never ended. The blue crept into his mouth and eyes, surrounding him with cold and pain and fear.

He got lost in the maze of pain and loneliness and cold blue light, always fumbling for a gun that wasn't there and gasping for air as the world closed in around him.

He couldn't escape from the dreams until the blue light and the laughter allowed him to leave.

And then he woke up in a hard bed, surrounded by monitors with _things_ over his face and in his mouth that made him feel like he was choking. He blinked and fought the gagging, but hands pushed him back onto the bed and then he was floating back into the cold blue light again.

It happened again and again, waking and choking and slipping back into the light.

Then he woke up on a hard bed with fewer monitors and nothing on his face, but he still felt like he was drowning. The dreams clung to him and he shuddered as they tried to drag him back into suffocating, aching unreality.

But this time there was a dark shape in the corner of his room and even though Phil couldn't see the man's face, his presence seemed to chase away the blue and Phil slipped into a dreamless sleep. Each time he woke up after that, gasping and shuddering, the shadow was in the corner and Phil could breathe and sink back into rest.

It was strangely comforting to have someone quietly watching over his sleep, guiding him back to a world where reds and greens and purples existed. Phil never saw his face and neither of them mentioned it during the daylight but he knew deep down who it was.

***

Fury told him that he'd been unconscious for the first two days after the attack on the Helicarrier and everyone had been told that he was dead. He didn't tell Fury about being trapped in his dreams and fighting to escape. Nobody had been told that he was awake until he was moved out of ICU and the doctors started to believe that he might actually live. That was when his silent protector had started visiting, Phil realised as some of the fogginess began to dissipate. 

The watcher only came at night or if Phil's room was empty and dark during the day. It wasn't long before the nurses stopped trying hint he should nap by dimming the lights during the day and Phil began only sleeping at night, when he knew the dreams didn't have to be faced alone. His days filled up quickly with breathing exercises and people eager to visit so staying awake wasn't difficult. Usually only one or two visitors were allowed at a time because the staff wanted him to stay calm and they were worried that having all the Avengers in his tiny room would be overwhelming.

They were probably right. Thor's one visit before he disappeared to Asgard with Loki left Phil feeling like a wrung out dishrag. He slept for hours after, only waking when one of the nurses wanted him to eat something and then dropping back into sleep as soon as the remnants of his small meal were taken away. There were no dreams at all that night and Phil woke up feeling groggy from too much sleep.

***

The transfer from the Helicarrier down to a SHIELD medical facility on the ground a week after the attacks was the worst part of his recovery. They'd taken his chest tubes out and he was even allowed to walk the two steps from his bed to the gurney, which left him feeling shaky and lightheaded even though he'd been able to run for miles a little over a week ago.

Going from a body that could run and fight and _move_ without a second thought to a body that got breathless from small exertions was frustrating. It made anger curl deep in Phil's gut every time he discovered something else he couldn't do or had to ask for help with. He'd had injuries before - nobody reached his level in SHIELD without the occasional wound - but nothing like this. Nothing where the act of breathing became a fight because so many things were broken or torn and trying to heal. He'd seen his medical files and he knew, logically, that he was doing well considering the severity of his injuries, but knowing that didn't stop the frustration from building up every time his breath caught because he'd moved just a little too far.

Transferring down to the surface probably wouldn't have been so bad if it hadn't been for the drugs they gave him. They were supposed to help with the discomfort from the air pressure changes and make him slightly sleepy so he'd be an easy patient for the technicians. It wasn't the first time the technicians had transported a patient from the Helicarrier down to the ground so Phil hadn't worried when the doctors told him the plan. He trusted them, trusted their judgement, so he let them administer the medication without complaining.

Except the drugs that should have made him dopy and compliant sent him straight into a deep sleep instead and he fell into the blue dreams. Nobody was there to watch over him and bring him back safely, so he flailed when someone touched him and almost broke a technician's jaw.

After that he refused to take anything that might make him sleep during the day and couldn't make himself relax until night fell and the nurses turned the lights out in his room. He never heard his watcher arrive, but he knew that if he woke from a blue dream then the dark outline would be there in a corner of the room and that was enough.

***

"So the good news is that you can get out of here tomorrow," Doctor Reynes said with a bright smile.

She was young and bright, her perfect skin and mass of blonde curls making her look almost too young for the white coat she wore. Her cheerful smile could also turn to a stern frown in a moment and Phil suspected she would verbally eviscerate any agent who tried to pull the 'little girl' routine on her.

"Tomorrow?" he asked.

Reynes nodded. "Sure, you're making great progress. No sign of infection, your last transfusion was over a week ago and you're getting up and down that corridor a couple of times a day now. If you've got someone who can give you a hand around your house for a few weeks, there's no reason to keep you here."

Phil frowned. "That may not be-"

"I'll help him out."

"-possible," Phil finished and then he blinked.

The familiar voice was Clint's. He stood just outside Phil's door looking awkward and uncomfortable, but his chin tilted up slightly when he realised Phil was looking at him.

"I can stay with him and help out," Clint clarified. "It's not like I've got anywhere to be for the next couple of weeks, sir. They've got me on stand-down for a while so I'm kind of at a loose end right now."

Their eyes met. Phil couldn't read anything there, Clint had shut everything down so effectively he might as well have been wearing a mask, but the deliberate lack of emotion said almost as much as his usual cheerful irreverence.

"Agent Coulson?" Reynes asked curiously.

Phil started to shrug and the gesture sent a flash of pain through his chest. He had to concentrate hard on not letting all the muscles tense up; he'd learned the painful way where that led.

Instead he settled for raising an eyebrow curiously. "Barton, are you sure about this?"

Clint lifted his shoulders and shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. "I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't. I mean, you don't have to. I just thought...forget it, this was a stupid idea."

Reynes grinned. "He's your key out of here, Agent Coulson. I'm not discharging you unless you've got someone staying with you. Trust me, this is going to be hard enough without trying to do it all on your own."

"If you're sure," Phil said carefully, trying to keep the hope he felt out of his voice.

"Pretty sure I wouldn't offer if I wasn't serious," Clint said and then added, almost as an afterthought, "Sir."

"Great!" Reynes said cheerfully. "I'll get the paperwork in motion. Agent Barton, you'll want to be here tomorrow for the ritual reading of the Big List of Nos, as I like to call it. I'll give you copies of his PT routine and diet as well and then you'll be all set."

She grinned and nearly bounced out of the room. Clint stepped back to let her past and he almost looked like he was going to leave, but he hesitated for a moment before squaring his shoulders and turning back.

"I'm sorry if I overstepped, sir," he said awkwardly.

Phil waved the apology away. "You saved me from another week in here, I'm grateful. Obviously I don't expect you to stay with me, but thank you for letting the doctor think you will."

Clint lifted his eyebrows. "Excuse me, sir, are you planning to disobey medical orders? After all the lectures you've read me about doing what medical tells me and how my recovery will be slower if I don't?"

"I-"

"Bullshit, sir," Clint said. "You can let me help - for real - or you can stay here."

"Barton, I'm perfectly capable-"

"You're all kinds of capable, sir," Clint said, "but right now the doctor thinks you need someone to help you for a couple of weeks and I trust her judgement more than yours on that."

Phil wanted desperately to glare at Clint and maybe say something cutting about Clint not trusting anyone's judgement about his own body in the past. Except it would be fruitless and he didn't have the energy to deal with the kind of circular logic Clint would pull out if he tried.

So instead he sagged a little and said, "Alright, you can stay."

There was just a hint of a smile on Clint's face, the closest to a normal expression Phil had seen on him since...well, since he'd work up in the ICU. It was almost worth giving in to see that. Almost.

"Thank you, sir," Clint said. "Guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Tomorrow," Phil echoed quietly to Clint's retreating back.

 

***

Clint managed to walk away from Coulson's room calmly and it was only when he turned a corner into an empty hallway that he stopped, leaned back against the wall and thumped his head on it a couple of times. The sharp pain helped his mind to clear and he took a deep breath.

"Idiot," he muttered under his breath. "You are a fucking idiot."

He hadn't meant to listen. He hadn't even planned to be there until much later, but somehow his feet had taken him to Coulson's door without conscious direction and his mouth had opened before his brain could fully engage.

And now he was committed to spending the next couple of weeks, at least, taking care of a man he loved so much it hurt and trying not to think about how much of all this was his fault.

"Fucking idiot," he muttered again before stalking away to find a quiet corner where he could hide until the lights went out.

***

Reynes looked pretty and happy again the next morning. Phil wanted to resent her mood because someone had put "no caffeine" on his chart and that much bright cheerfulness was hard to take when he was barely awake. She was signing his discharge papers, though, and his relief at finally getting to leave medical outweighed any irritation he felt at dealing with such a sunny personality with no coffee.

"Has your nurse set up your follow-up appointment next week?" Reynes asked as she scribbled something on her char.

Phil nodded.

"Excellent!" Reynes said with a wide grin. "Bet you'll be glad to get out of here, huh?"

"I miss my bed," Phil said truthfully.

"Most of my patients say that," Reynes said. "Or they hate our cooking, it's always one or the other."

"My cooking isn't any better," Phil admitted, "but my bed is much more comfortable."

They were sitting on his bed while Reynes filled out the paperwork and Phil's ass was already threatening to go numb from the hard mattress. Two weeks sleeping in this bed had been more than enough for a lifetime. If he'd been feeling better at the time, he might have considered doing a victory dance when the nurses had finally started to let him sit up in a chair for part of the day after he was transported down from the Helicarrier. Then he'd sat in the chair and reconsidered.

"All part of our plan," Reynes said. "If you hate the beds then you'll be happy to get out of them."

"Your chairs aren't much better," Phil said with a wry smile.

"We're trying to encourage you to go home, not keep you here forever."

There was a knock and then Clint nudged the door open, a carefully neutral smile on his face. "Am I on time?"

Reynes signed one last piece of paper with a flourish and stood up. "You're perfect. Come on in."

Clint edged in cautiously and Phil was struck by how tired he looked. There were lines around his mouth and dark circles under his eyes. Phil had seen the footage of Clint under Loki's control and he didn't look much healthier now. The only real difference was in his eyes: they were the beautiful ever-changing blue and green Phil remembered, not the bright electric blue from the videos.

Phil mentally shook himself, forcing those thoughts back into the corner of his mind where they usually stayed contained in their carefully constructed boxes.

"Doctor Reynes was just finishing the paperwork," Phil said to him. "I'm free to leave whenever you're ready."

"Not without this," Reynes said sternly, extracting a sheaf of paper from her folder and holding it out to Clint. "As we discussed, copies of his restrictions, physio schedule and diet plan."

Clint took them warily, as though he was afraid they'd explode if he took them too fast.

"Doesn't he have copies?" Clint asked, frowning down at the multi-coloured pages.

Reynes chuckled. "He does. And now you've got copies as well so nobody can claim they didn't know he's not supposed to lift things over a certain weight. I've treated enough of you people to know you'll pretend most of this doesn't apply to you if it doesn't fit into your personal preferences."

A ghost of a smile, a real one for once, appeared on Clint's lips. "Why do you think I'll enforce all this?"

"Because you volunteered to take care of him," Reynes said firmly. "If you weren't planning to make him stick to at least a few of these guidelines, you would have let him go home alone. Now, I've got other patients to see and your paperwork is in order. Make sure I don't see you again until your check-up, OK?"

She didn't give Phil time to do more than nod before she was hurrying out of the door, her mind clearly already on her next patient. 

Clint stared after her with a bemused expression. "She's intense."

"That's one way of putting it," Phil said.

There was an awkward silence for a long moment. Clint shifted on his feet, his sneakers squeaking against the tile. Phil felt oddly exposed even though he was wearing real clothes instead of hospital gowns and robes for the first time in days. Usually he had the armour of his suit when Clint was around. Today he was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt, both brought by Natasha when she visited a couple of days ago, and he felt under-dressed. He'd needed to ask a nurse to tie his shoes for him when he realised that stretching down to the laces was currently a difficult task. It had been one of the little things that kept sneaking up and reminding him that everything had changed. He would probably have to ask Clint to do that for him unless he was willing to spend the next six weeks wearing loafers. The thought of asking Clint to tie his laces seemed even worse than the idea of Clint doing his groceries. At least buying groceries was something a friend might do: tying laces seemed more intimate in a way Phil couldn't put into words.

"Is that all your stuff?" Clint asked eventually.

Phil glanced back at the pile on the end of his bed. Somehow, despite spending over two weeks wearing hospital gowns and doing little more than just lying or sitting around, he'd acquired a lot of things. Stacks of books and magazines, in case he felt like reading. Two heart pillows, one a plain white standard issue thing and the other a ridiculous red fluffy object Sitwell had thought was hilarious. A huge, oddly shaped pillow brought when Pepper noticed how uncomfortable he looked trying to lie down without putting pressure on any of his injuries. Most people who had open heart surgery didn't also have a huge stab wound in their back just under their shoulder blade.

Out of all the things piled on the bed, only the small bag of socks, underwear and new, unworn shirts was Phil's. Everything else had been given to him as gifts. He supposed it made them his things as well, but none of it really felt like his.

"That's everything," he said.

Clint nodded and began working out how to carry it all. "Good thing I got a car from the pool, you'd never get all this shit in your car."

"She's built for speed more than carrying capacity," Phil agreed and Clint shot him a quick grin.

"Speed and looks," Clint said. "Nice to know you're shallow about _something_ , sir."

He waved the thick volume of classic novels that had escaped from its bag and Phil rolled his eyes. It had been a gift from Fury, an unsubtle hint that there was going to be a lot of downtime in his future and he should use it to improve his mind or whatever Fury had written in the flyleaf.

A quiet knock at the door interrupted anything Phil might have tried to say. He looked over and found an orderly in neat white scrubs standing in the door with a wheelchair.

A wheelchair.

Phil tried to keep his expression neutral even though he wanted to glare because three weeks ago he'd run ten miles for fun and today someone was trying to put him in a wheelchair.

"Agent Coulson?" the orderly said.

"Is that really necessary?" he asked tiredly.

"Standard procedure," the orderly said without flinching. "And don't forget to bring your cane."

Out of the corner of his eye, Phil could see Clint concentrating hard on balancing the huge pillow and a bag of books. There was no sarcastic quip or crooked grin, only complete focus on his task and not even a glance in Phil's direction. It was odd to realise that this was one occasion when Phil would have appreciated some of Clint's brand of cheerful teasing. It would have helped him to laugh at his new reality instead of feeling faintly depressed that there were old men out there who could walk more steadily than he could.

The orderly pushed the chair closer and Phil grabbed his cane from where it had been propped against the wall, balancing it across his knees when he settled in the chair.

"Ready to go?" Clint asked.

He looked like a pack horse, laden down with pillows and bags and the African violet that Maria Hill had delivered two days ago.

"I'm ready," Phil said.

***

It was a good thing he was carrying so many things, Clint decided, otherwise he wouldn't have been able to resist the temptation to put out a hand to steady Coulson as they made the slow journey from the elevator to Coulson's apartment door. This was why Clint had rarely visited during daylight hours: he couldn't stand seeing Coulson looking so tired, thin and almost frail.

Those first couple of days after they were finally told he was alive had been the worst. Coulson's skin had been so pale he almost looked translucent and every breath he'd taken looked painful and slow. Some of the colour had returned now but he didn't move the way he used to, fast and decisive. Instead everything was done slowly, carefully, sometimes almost hesitantly, and there were lines and hollows on his face that hadn't been there before.

Keeping watch at night, when the only light came from the monitors by his bed, had been much easier. Clint had almost been able to pretend that nothing had changed when Coulson was a pale form lying on a bed.

And the worst part was that he knew he'd stick around as long as Coulson needed him, no matter how hard it got, because there was always the thought in the back of his mind that if he did this then some of the guilt that kept trying to choke him would go away.

They reached the door and Clint pretended he couldn't see the way Coulson's hands were shaking slightly as unlocked it. Just like he'd pretended he couldn't see the wince when Coulson got out of the car or the way Coulson's lips had tightened when the elevator lurched on its way between the third and fourth floors.

The door opened onto a small lobby area filled with shoe racks and coat hooks. There was a hallway to Clint's right that he knew led to the kitchen, bedroom and bathroom and the living room was directly ahead. He'd only visited the apartment a couple of times over the years to drop off files but he'd always liked the way it felt: comfortable, warm, tidy without being painfully neat. Kind of like its owner.

Clint followed Coulson into the living room and waited patiently while Coulson carefully lowered himself onto the couch.

"Where do you want this?" Clint asked, nodding down at his armload of things.

Coulson frowned at it. "Just...put it on a chair. We can put it away later."

The 'we' sounded good, but Clint had had a lot of practice at not reading anything else into it. He dropped the pillows into a chair in the corner and stacked the bags around it.

Then he had nothing in his hands and nowhere he needed to be so he stood awkwardly by the pile. It was obvious the living room had been arranged for comfort instead of style: the couch was positioned to give the perfect viewing angle for the television and the end tables and coffee table were within reach without stretching. Cables snaked across the floor, evidence of Coulson's habit of working on his laptop from there, and there were a few battered paperbacks on the end table closest to him. Clint could tell from the position of the cushions and books that Coulson had taken his usual seat and he filed away that piece of information just in case he ever needed it.

Somehow it didn't feel right to sit down and make himself at home here but Clint couldn't spend the next few weeks standing uncertainly in a corner. He gestured vaguely to the hallway.

"Are you hungry?" he asked.

Coulson looked up and his small smile was tired but real, one of the rare beautiful ones Clint always hoarded away in his mental box of good memories. "I'm not really hungry and I'm not sure what I've got here that's still edible anyway."

"I can take a look." A thought occurred and Clint almost sighed at the relief of having a job he could do. "I can clear out your fridge and get some fresh stuff. If you don't mind."

"Do I mind not having to deal with liquefied broccoli and rancid leftovers?" Coulson asked.

Clint shrugged. "Some people get really possessive about their leftovers. I didn't want to presume."

Coulson's smile widened. "Feel free to presume, I'm not really attached to three week-old lasagne."

"I'll keep that in mind." Clint moved to the door and hesitated. "Are you good here or do you need me to bring you anything?"

"I'm fine, don't worry about me," Coulson said lightly. "I'll probably just...see what my DVR picked up while I was away."

"Are you sure?" Clint gestured to the stack of stuff on the chair. "You've got a lot of shi-stuff, there, sir, and I know some of it was crap you're supposed to be using. Says so right on that list the doctor gave you."

"I'm sure," Coulson said firmly. "If I need anything, I'm sure I can walk five feet to get it."

Clint eyed him dubiously, taking in the pale, pinched look of his face and the way his hands shook a little as he reached for the remote. "I'll be in the kitchen, sir. Yell if you need anything."

"I will," Coulson said.

***

When Clint checked on Coulson a while later as he took a bag of rotten food out to the trash, the careful stack of pillows and bags had fallen off the chair and Coulson was on the sofa clutching his heart pillow tight against his chest as he coughed. Clint paused by the doorway, staying back so he could watch unseen while Coulson took a couple of deep, painful breaths and then put the pillow aside.

The TV was playing an episode of something that involved kitchens and a lot of foul language, but Clint was fairly sure Coulson wasn't taking much in. He seemed more concerned with finding a way to unknot his laces without pulling on any of his healing wounds.

Clint could feel his own chest aching in sympathy as Coulson carefully tried different positions and sometimes hissed softly as something hurt. His instincts told him to go in there and offer to help but Clint couldn't make himself do it.

Instead he watched for another minute and then forced himself to quietly move away and finish taking out the stinking trash.

***

Phil wasn't sure what he'd expected when Clint had volunteered to stay. He'd tried not to think about it in case he got too hopeful or started to spin fantasies of companionable evenings together where Clint started to see him as something more than just a handler and good friend. It was difficult enough, some days, to remember that he was 'Barton' in the world outside Phil's head. There had been a little voice inside telling him that this was dangerous, that all this time alone with Clint would inevitably lead to a slip if he wasn't careful.

The idea that Clint would spend the whole of the first day cleaning the kitchen, shopping for food, cleaning the bathroom and fixing a light that hadn't worked for months wasn't a scenario he'd pictured. It was almost as though Clint was avoiding him, except it had been _Clint_ who had insisted on staying so that couldn't be the case. Could it?

It could, Phil decided later as he ate supper alone on the couch and listened to Clint moving around the kitchen. The bowl of stir fried vegetables over brown rice was healthy and nutritious. Unlike anything SHIELD medical provided, the vegetables were crispy and fresh and there were even chunks of tofu hidden in the mixture. Phil hadn't realised Clint knew what tofu was, let alone how to cook it. He could recognise a few of the vegetables - carrots and peas were familiar friends - but there were green cubes and paler green leaves that he couldn't even guess at. The whole thing tasted vaguely salty-sweet and the spongy texture of the tofu felt strange in Phil's mouth. It was probably the healthiest thing he'd eaten in years and he tried not to think about burgers as he spooned it up.

When it was finally late enough that Phil didn't feel like an invalid for going to bed, he carefully pushed himself upright and made the slow journey from the living room to his bedroom. There was still a light on in the kitchen and something tightened in Phil's chest when he saw that Clint was sitting at the table with a cup of coffee and a book.

"You know, there are comfortable chairs in the living room," Phil said quietly. "You're more than welcome there."

Clint looked up with an expression Phil couldn't read. "I didn't like to interrupt you."

"I'd appreciate the company," Phil found himself admitting before he could think about what that would mean.

Clint blinked and he almost looked like he was going to smile, then this expression shut down again. "Are you heading to bed, sir?"

"I'm tired," Phil said. "Getting impaled is a lot more exhausting than it looks."

"Looks pretty exhausting from where I'm sitting."

"It's been a while since anyone used the guest room," Phil said because he'd seen a flash of something - guilt - in Clint's eyes and he didn't know any other way to make it go away. "I'm sorry, the bed isn't made up, but there are sheets and blankets in the cupboard. You should make yourself comfortable."

"I'll be awake a while yet, boss," Clint said, gesturing with his mug. "I don't sleep much right now. Do you need anything?"

Phil hesitated, tempted to say yet just to keep the conversation going. Tempted to ask Clint to call him Phil, just to see what he'd do. There was a good excuse for it, they were going to spend the next couple of weeks living together, but the words got stuck in his throat. 

In the end Phil couldn't think of anything safe to ask Clint for so he settled for saying, "No, I'll be fine. Good night."

"Night, boss. Hope you sleep OK."


	2. Chapter 2

Phil's dreams were grey and blue. Only flashes of blue, out of the corner of his eye where he could never quite see where the light was coming from, but he knew it was there. He wanted to turn, sensing somehow that if he could just move away from the greyness then everything would be better and the burning pain in his chest would go away.

But the dream wouldn't let him; he was trapped in the grey blankness and the pain with no escape. It seeped into his mouth and throat, trapping his breath there so he couldn't cry out or move. Fear rose up and he tried to fight, but there was nothing to hold onto and nothing to fight. Just the unending grey and the flashes of blue and the pain.

***

Phil startled awake and lay on his soft bed in his pile of fluffy pillows, listening to the harsh sound of his breath in the darkness. Shapes slowly began to emerge as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light: the dresser near the door, a bookcase under the window, a dark, familiar shape in the corner.

There was a faint glitter of light reflected in the watcher's eyes and Phil smiled, feeling oddly comforted. Then he closed his eyes and drifted back into sleep.

***

Clint flicked the edge of the diet sheet from medical and snorted at it. He'd been going through all the papers carefully for the last hour, trying to pull out the things that were definitely rules with consequences and the areas where the instructions were more like advice to be considered in combination with how well the patient was functioning.

No lifting anything over a certain weight? Definitely a rule. Coulson's ribcage was held together with wire and Clint had seen the healing red incisions on his chest when Coulson's sheets slipped down to his waist just before dawn.

Eat a precisely prescribed quantity of chicken and steamed vegetables for lunch on Tuesdays? Definitely a guideline.

In fact, the diet sheet was just a healthy eating plan disguised as a diet and Clint was fairly sure Coulson was already craving a package of mini-donuts if this was what he'd been living on since he woke up.

He was guiltily aware of the stash of unhealthy snacks - all of them Coulson's favourites - that he'd hidden in the back of a cupboard. His motivations for it hadn't been very pure: when he'd been browsing the aisles at the store, all he'd thought about was having something on hand to cheer Coulson up if he hit a rough day. There had been visions of Coulson smiling at him when he held out a package of sweet, sugary treats, smiling and maybe inviting Clint to share them. It was the kind of thing Coulson would do and Clint could never say no to, even though he knew that Coulson didn't mean anything more than friendliness in the offer.

The quiet sound of a door clicking pulled Clint out of his thoughts. After a couple of minutes the rushing sound of the shower began. Clint tucked the leaflets into a drawer and pushed away any thoughts that weren't focused on breakfast.

By the time he heard Coulson's soft footsteps outside the door, Clint had prepared two bowls of neatly cubed fruit. He'd even found a cloth for the table and set out cutlery and mugs.

Coulson paused in the doorway and Clint couldn't completely contain his involuntary snort of laughter. It shouldn't have been funny but the sight of Coulson wearing sweatpants and a pale blue button down shirt with frayed cuffs, his wet hair dripping down his face and into his collar, seemed to hit something Clint thought had been broken. He tried to suck back the grin pulling at his mouth but when he looked down and saw Coulson's bare feet poking out under the grey fabric that pooled on the floor because the pants were too long, he couldn't keep it in.

A small smile twitched at the corners of Coulson's lips. "I may need to do some laundry later." 

"Sure, we can do that," Clint said easily. "You show me where you keep the soap, I'll do the rest."

"I can-"

"I'm pretty sure there's no way your laundry weighs less than five pounds, so you're supervising only until the docs clear you," Clint said.

"Barton, I've been doing my own laundry for years," Coulson said stiffly. "I can manage."

"And I've got a sheet of paper that says you can't carry anything weighing more than five pounds," Clint said. "So unless you were planning to carry your clothes piece by piece over to the machines, you're off laundry duty for a few weeks."

"I'm sure I can carry small loads." Coulson's expression was stubborn, almost flinty. "A few shirts won't hurt me."

"You're really that attached to doing your laundry?" Clint frowned. "How about if I carry the hamper over to the machine and you can load it up."

There was a long pause while Coulson frowned and seemed to think through all the options.

"That might work," he conceded eventually.

Clint made a mental note to make sure Coulson didn't try to sneak in and unload the machine on his own. He was starting to have a little bit of sympathy for anyone who'd ever tried to make him stick to medical's orders over the years when all he wanted was to shoot some arrows, broken wrist or not.

Neither of them mentioned Coulson's hair, even though the water running down his neck had to be irritating, and Clint didn't know how to offer his help. Asking someone whether they needed help drying their hair seemed strangely intimate. Too intimate, if Clint was honest with himself. Definitely more difficult to talk about than laundry.

Coulson avoided Clint's eyes and moved slowly to one of the counters, his stick thumping unevenly as he walked. Clint knew Coulson had seen the bowls of fruit; they were impossible to miss sitting on the table. But Coulson propped the stick against his leg and carefully reached up to get a bowl out of the cupboard overhead. The muffled grunt as the motion pulled on something made Clint wince internally and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself offering to help.

The boxes of cereal were on the shelf above the bowls and Clint called himself an idiot for not thinking ahead and putting them on the counter so Coulson wouldn't try to reach. Instead he had to watch as Coulson stretched and managed to touch the corner of one with the tip of his finger, but all he managed to do was push it further back into the cupboard.

Coulson lowered his arm and leaned against the counter while he took a careful breath and Clint couldn't stand it anymore. "Why don't you let me get that down for you, sir?"

The irritated glare Coulson sent him only lasted a moment before Coulson's familiar mask of bland smoothed out his features. "I can manage."

"I know you can," Clint said, "but isn't it easier if I can help?"

"Barton, I can get my own cereal," Coulson said tiredly. "Just let me do that much."

Clint swallowed down his protest that it was no bother, really, and reluctantly sat down at the table where he could watch without hovering. It took a while and a long spoon but Coulson eventually tipped the cereal down from the shelf and knocked over his stick as he caught the box. The loud clatter as the cane fell made Clint wince and then pretend to be incredibly interested in his bowl of fruit. He didn't look up until Coulson sat down at the table with his hard-won bowl of cereal

They ate in silence for a while before Coulson said, "Fruit isn't a breakfast food."

"Most people would disagree with you on that." Clint held up a chunk of melon balanced on his spoon. "It's healthy."

"So is this," Coulson said, holding up a spoonful of brown mushy flakes.

"Just think how much healthier that would be with some strawberries in."

Coulson rolled his eyes and Clint grinned and for a while everything felt almost normal again.

***

There had been visitors every day when Phil was in medical, so he wasn't completely surprised to hear someone knock on the door in the afternoon and then the hushed sound of voices.

It was actually a relief to have something to break the boredom. He'd already discovered he was locked out of all his SHIELD accounts, even the backdoors he'd set up years ago, so his laptop was now sitting abandoned on the far corner of the coffee table. His DVR was full of shows but he couldn't settle to any and after an hour of flipping from one to another without finding anything he wanted to watch, he'd turned off the TV and picked up a book. Over the last two hours he'd read five pages.

Phil pushed himself up a little straighter on the couch, which hurt but made him feel less like an invalid, and put the book down. The front door closed and a moment later Pepper appeared in the doorway, an amused grin on her face.

"Agent Barton is your carer? Really?" She held up a bag from the deli down the street. "He said he's going to his place to pick up some things. I brought soup, where can I put it?"

Phil smiled at her. "Down the hall, the kitchen's on the left. You can put it in the fridge if there's any room with all the vegetables he's making me eat."

Her laughter floated behind her as she padded away. She was back a minute later, the amused grin still firmly in place, and she tucked her feet under her as she sat down on the other end of the sofa. Pepper had dressed down for the visit in jeans and a soft sweater, which was flattering because it meant she'd blocked out an afternoon just to see Phil rather than visiting on her way to or from somewhere. 

He smiled warmly at her and she raised both eyebrows.

"Agent Barton?" she asked again. "They assigned him to look after you?"

"He volunteered," Phil said. "And he's much better at this than you'd think."

"Really?" she asked dubiously.

"He's obsessed with making me eat vegetables and stick to my medical restrictions. I might turn into a carrot soon if he keeps it up."

There was a pause and then Pepper narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. She searched his face for a moment before a peculiar expression appeared and Phil suddenly felt deeply uncomfortable for no reason he could explain.

"Oh Phil," she said quietly.

"What?"

"Don't pretend you don't know," she said. "Trust me, I'm an expert on falling in love with the guy who looks like he's completely wrong for me and turns out not to be."

"I'm not-"

"Yes, you are."

Phil thought about protesting further but it would be futile when Pepper was right. He sighed. "How did you know?"

"Because I've seen that look in the mirror a thousand times and you sound like me when I'm talking about Tony. Don't worry, I don't think anyone else would guess." Pepper cocked her head. "Is that why things didn't work out with the cellist?"

"Partially," Phil admitted. "I thought getting back into the dating game was a way to move on."

"It's hard to move on when your heart's not yours anymore," Pepper said softly. "I've been there, it doesn't work that way."

"I figured that out."

She offered him a gentle smile. "You could always try my solution, it's working out fairly well when Tony's not being too...Tony."

"I don't think that's an option for me." Phil shrugged and then winced. "He's not..."

"Interested? Gay?"

"We've never discussed it. We're colleagues."

"You're more than that." Pepper gestured to the kitchen. "People who are only colleagues don't volunteer to spend a few weeks cooking, cleaning, and looking after you."

Phil carefully didn't mention the nightmares and the quiet presence in the corner of his bedroom who guided him out of them. People who were just colleagues didn't do that either, but it was too private to talk about and he still hadn't worked out what it meant.

Whether it meant anything at all.

"What kind of soup did you bring?" He ignored Pepper's irritated glare at the obvious subject change. "It's very generous, thank you."

For a moment Pepper looked like she was going to press on, but then she rolled her eyes and gave in. "Chicken noodle. Tony's choice, he's busy with the repairs to the Tower or he'd be here as well."

"How are the repairs going?" Phil asked.

He managed to keep her occupied with the details of the repairs and then a rambling rant about Tony's sleeping habits until Clint got back and invited her to stay for supper. This time Phil and Pepper had the kitchen table - eating her chicken soup - while Clint ate in the living room and Phil avoided Pepper's eyes whenever she got a worried look in them.

***

Clint shifted in his chair and rubbed his gritty eyes. He was tired, exhaustion dragged at his whole body, but he'd tried to sleep just like he tried every night and rest hadn't come. Sleep only ever seemed to welcome him for a couple of hours near dawn and he always woke up feeling unrested and relieved to be out of the nightmares.

So he spent his nights in a corner of Coulson's room, first in SHIELD medical and now here, watching over him and telling himself that this was fine and normal and completely healthy. He watched Coulson sleep and wished with all his soul that everything was different.

That Loki had never happened to either of them.

That he didn't feel the sick weight of guilt every time he looked at Coulson.

That he'd been braver and told Coulson how he felt before everything went to shit.

The pale moonlight shining in through the window turned Coulson's skin to silver and created valleys of shadow that hid the damage Loki's spear had done. Clint had learned Coulson's habits over the weeks of watching him, the small sounds he made as he slept and the way he always pushed his sheets down to his waist while he slept, even though goose bumps rose on his skin. 

When they'd shared hotel rooms on missions Coulson had always worn old frayed t-shirts and sweatshirts to sleep in and Clint had done the same. It was one of their unspoken rules: no matter what they did at home, if they were sharing a hotel or a safe house then there were standards they kept to. Worn t-shirts hadn't always kept Clint's mind away from dangerous territory around Coulson, but at least he'd never spent three hours staring at the mole on Coulson's shoulder blade and wondering how it would taste on his tongue.   
The physio instructions had made it clear that Coulson wouldn't be able to raise his hands over his head to pull on t-shirts or sweatshirts unaided for a while. He hadn't asked for help and Clint couldn't make himself offer, so Coulson slept with a bare chest and some nights Clint felt as though it was a punishment for all the things he'd done wrong.

Coulson shifted in the bed and Clint's eyes were drawn the tension starting to tighten muscles in Coulson's shoulders and neck. A small frown appeared between Coulson's eyebrows and Clint knew instinctively that he was back in the nightmare he seemed to have every night. Clint didn't move, not even when Coulson's jaw clenched and his breathing sped up, because this wasn't how they worked. Leaving the chair in the corner, approaching Coulson, would change everything and Clint couldn't do that.

All he could do was watch and wait while Coulson fought whatever demons he faced every night.

Clint felt his own jaw tighten and it was a struggle to keep his breathing slow and even instead of speeding up to match Coulson's fast, shallow rate. They stayed locked in the nightmare together, dreamer and watcher, until Coulson suddenly stiffened and his eyes opened. Clint held his breath while Coulson lay motionless in the bed, eyes glittering in the moonlight without seeming to focus on anything. 

The tension slowly bled away from Coulson's body, his eyes drifted closed, and he slipped back into sleep.

Clint watched until the sky began to turn steel grey with the first glimmer of dawn. Then he silently left the room and fell into the bed in the guest room. He slept for a couple of hours and woke up feeling strangled and alone.

***

Phil paused in the doorway to the kitchen so he could watch Clint carefully slicing fruit for breakfast. It felt like every time he turned around, Clint was trying to feed him fruit or hide vegetables in things or offer him healthy carrot sticks when he was looking for something sweet to snack on.

The dark circles under Clint's eyes were deeper than ever and he looked tired down to the core. Even his skin had taken on the ashen tinge Phil associated with illness and grief. If Phil had known where to start, he would have taken away every burden just so that he could see Clint's wide grin and beautiful eyes again. It was fairly obvious to Phil where some of Clint's pain came from but knowing the cause and knowing how to fix it were different things. For now, all he could do was be patient and try to let Clint know that he'd be here when Clint was ready to talk.

He spotted the cereal boxes neatly lined up on the kitchen table and sighed. "Barton, I'm capable of getting my cereal out of the cupboard."

Clint's shoulders stiffened for a moment before he relaxed with an obvious effort. "I know you are, sir. But think how much easier this is."

Phil bit down the response he wanted to make - that easier didn't necessarily mean better - and focused on getting the milk out of the fridge without tripping over his cane or Clint. The kitchen was too small for two people and a walking cane to coexist comfortably but he wasn't going to just let Clint do everything for him at a simple meal like breakfast. 

He eyed the big bowl of fruit Clint set down in the middle of the table.

"Fruit still isn't a breakfast food," he said as Clint looked at him expectantly.

"Millions of people would still disagree with you, sir," Clint said.

"Granola is healthy," Phil said. "The box lists fibre and vitamins as the main ingredients."

"Bananas and strawberries have even more fibre and vitamins and they taste great on granola."

"You're fixating."

"Eat your damn fruit, sir, or I'll tell the doctor you're being a difficult patient."

"She'll just laugh," Phil said as he put a small spoonful of strawberries on his granola. "As I recall, your file is covered with warnings about your behaviour in medical."

The eye roll he got as Clint spooned fruit over some yoghurt wasn't quite the grin he usually received, but Phil decided it was a victory anyway because it had taken some of the tense unhappiness out of Clint's eyes for now. Phil could feel water trickling down his neck where he hadn't been able to towel the water off his hair properly. It was irritating but he couldn't think of a way to ask Clint for help.

Well, he could but every scenario that played out in his head sounded like a cheesy pick-up line to him and Phil couldn't make himself do it.

So he tried to ignore the annoyance and dug into his breakfast. They ate in companionable silence until Phil scraped his bowl clean and sat back. Clint's entire focus seemed to be on the bowl in front of him and Phil took advantage of the distraction to watch him eat for a minute. He'd seen Clint eating more times than he could count, but there was something different about Clint sitting at his small kitchen table in dressed worn jeans and frayed t-shirt. It was somehow more intimate and Phil could almost pretend, for a moment anyway, that this was something they did every day. Not something Clint was doing out of a misplaced sense of obligation.

His thoughts threatened to go somewhere dark and unhappy so Phil cleared his throat and asked, "Do you have any plans today?"

Clint shrugged. "There's...uh...no. Unless you need something?"

The question floored Phil for a minute because he'd only been trying to distract himself from his thoughts.

"Company?" Phil suggested after a moment of scrambled thinking. "According to the physio plan, I'm supposed to take short, gentle walks every day to rebuild my strength before I can start the real physio. There's a deli down the street; walk me down there later and I'll buy you lunch."

There was a long silence where Clint just stared at him, expressionless, and Phil started to wonder whether he'd said something incredibly wrong.

He breathed a silent sigh of relief when Clint finally nodded and said, "Sure, we could do that."

***

The walk down to the deli was the longest trip Phil had taken outside since he'd woken up. The warmth of the sunshine and feel of the soft breeze on his face was almost enough to distract him from the painfully slow pace he had to stick to.

Almost.

This part of the city hadn't been touched by the Chitauri. He'd always liked the sense of quiet community on the streets: just busy enough that he didn't stand out but not so busy that he felt lost in the traffic. Despite everything else that had happened, this little corner hadn't changed apart from a few new signs advertising food drives and fundraising events.

Walking down the street with Clint at his side felt good, better than good if Phil was being completely honest. He could see some of the tense lines around Clint's mouth starting to melt away, as though he'd been missing sunlight and fresh air as much as Phil had. Every now and again Clint tipped his head back to look at the sky and Phil wondered what he saw up there but couldn't bring himself to ask.

The deli wasn't far from the apartment but Phil was still more than ready for a rest when they pushed inside.

Clint looked at him shrewdly and said, "Go on, sit down. I'll bring your order over. What do you want?"

Phil scanned the board over the counter for a moment. "Moroccan chicken soup sounds good."

"I thought you'd be tired of chicken soup by now," Clint said.

"It depends on the soup," Phil said lightly. "I've eaten enough canned chicken noodle to last a lifetime. Fresh soup is different."

"Good thing I didn't buy any canned stuff, then."

The table Phil picked was in a corner at the back and he sank onto the chair gratefully. He watched Clint stand in line with a sense of quiet contentment. For a moment, he could almost imagine that this was something they normally did together: a quiet walk, lunch at the deli, perhaps an afternoon of movies on the sofa.

It was a nice fantasy, a pretty illusion of what life might have been like if everything was different. When Clint smiled flirtatiously at the woman taking his order, Phil swallowed and reminded himself that a fantasy was all it would ever be.

The tray Clint brought to the table was loaded down with two bowls of soup, glasses of iced tea and two sandwiches. Phil raised an eyebrow when a bowl and a sandwich were placed in front of him.

Clint shrugged. "We can wrap up anything you can't eat."

To his surprise, Phil was able to eat half the sandwich as well as his bowl of soup. He blamed it on distraction because Clint decided to play a game of 'make up their backgrounds' for everyone who entered the deli and some of Clint's stories were so funny Phil laughed even though it made his ribs hurt. Phil did his best to think up equally entertaining stories for the deli patrons but somehow he didn't have Clint's flair for creativity.

Or maybe it was the way Clint told the stories that made them funny.

"Ready to walk back?" Clint asked when Phil pushed aside his plate. "I can bring the car round if we've overdone things."

Phil grimaced and said, sharply. "That won't be necessary. I'm not completely crippled."

Clint's expression went blank and Phil suppressed a wince. None of this was Clint's fault, he was doing his best, and Phil had been trying not to take his unhappiness with his own limitations out on Clint.

"I'm sorry, that was uncalled for," Phil said quietly.

"You're tired and I got carried away." Clint began stacking the plates and bowls, carefully not look up to meet Phil's eyes. "There's nothing to apologise for."

"I'd disagree."

"Guess we'll have to agree to disagree then. Ready?"

There was a chill in the air as they walked back to the apartment and the sun disappeared behind a cloud before they were even halfway there. Phil tried to reclaim that feeling of happy contentment from earlier but it seemed to slip between his fingers with each shock of pain through his chest. He could feel Clint's worried looks and the way he was trying not to look like he was preparing to catch Phil even though he was. It just made Phil feel even more uncomfortable. They made it to his front door finally and it took the last of his strength to shuffle to the sofa and sink down slowly and carefully. He glared at his shoes and was so busy trying to work up the energy to tackle the task of taking them off that he didn't hear Clint going to the kitchen.

He was just aware that a few minutes later Clint was holding out a glass of cold water and a bottle of painkillers and then Clint was crouching to tug off his shoes.

"You don't have to pretend that you're fine when you're not," Clint said quietly. "I'm here to help you, this is what I signed up for."

"Taking my shoes off?" Phil asked.

He couldn't seem to look away from Clint's fingers on his shoelaces.

"Taking your shoes off when you're hurting too much," Clint agreed. There was a hint of frustration in his voice as he continued, "Helping you with the t-shirts you keep pretending you don't want to wear at night because you can't put them on and drying your hair when you can't get a towel to it. I'm not just here for laundry and a bit of cooking."

"You shouldn't have to-"

"There's no should or shouldn't about this, sir," Clint said. "I want to. It doesn't make you weak or a burden or whatever you're thinking. You've been there for me over the years, let me do this for you."

Phil blinked and watched Clint picking at the knot he'd made in one of the laces.

"I'm locked out of SHIELD's systems and watching Dog Cops on my own got old before I left medical," he said slowly. "It's probably more fun with company."

There was a long pause and then Clint looked up, his hands wrapped around one of Phil's shoes. "If that's what you need."

"That's what I need." There was a heavy weight in the air, as though they were talking about something much more significant than a couple of hours on the sofa with his DVR and Netflix, but Phil told himself that he was overthinking again. "I'll even let you pick a movie later."

A smile slowly grew on Clint's face, chasing away some of the tiredness and making the corners of his eyes wrinkle for the first time in days. "With an offer like that on the table, how can I say no?"

***

That evening, Clint wasn't completely surprised to turn around from wiping down the kitchen counters to find Coulson standing in the doorway looking awkward and frustrated. He was bare-chested, the incisions standing out red and ugly, and Clint couldn't decide whether he felt guiltier about the scars or the fact that his fingers itched to touch Coulson's skin.

Coulson held up a dark blue sweatshirt with obvious reluctance. "Can you help me with this?"

Clint nodded wordlessly and followed Coulson down the hallway to his bedroom. Wrestling him carefully into the sweatshirt turned out to be easier if Coulson sat on the edge of his bed and Clint was grateful Coulson had chosen a sweater that was two sizes too large. The fabric was old, soft, and worn at the elbows; the kind of thing that was kept around for comfort long after it should have been retired.

"I don't think I ever appreciated how much I took lifting my arms over my head for granted," Coulson said as they gently worked the sweatshirt over his head and shoulders without forcing his arms up higher than he could manage comfortably. "I don't think I appreciated how easy breathing was, either."

"You've never broke a rib?" Clint asked

It was difficult to resist the temptation let his hands linger as he pulled the sweater down Coulson's torso. The warm, smooth skin brushed against the backs of his fingers as he eased the fabric into place.

"One rib, yes," Coulson said. "Several ribs and sawing my sternum in half is different."

Clint pulled his hands away quickly as his stomach lurched with another wave of the now-familiar guilt. He almost thought Coulson didn't notice until Coulson frowned up at him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Clint lied. "Do you need anything else?"

Coulson shook his head. "That was all I needed."

"I should finish cleaning up," Clint said, gesturing back to the kitchen. "Good night."

He began moving to the door and paused when he heard Coulson's voice.

"Good night." There was a pause but Clint didn't look back. "Thank you for today."

Clint shrugged. "It's what I'm here for, right?"

Then he left before Coulson could say anything else, pulling the door nearly closed so he didn't have to listen to the rustles and pained grunts as Coulson positioned himself for sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Phil dreamt in shades of grey and silver. People running past him, the deck rocking under his feat, lights flashing that he knew should be a red but weren't.

A flash of blue out of the corner of his eye distracted him and then there was that laughter again and the pain in his chest and then...

***

Phil woke up with a start and felt every muscle in his chest suddenly spasm, pulling on half-healed bones and wounds so they burst into fiery pain. It knocked the air out of him and the pain made his muscles clench down, which only made everything hurt _more_. He fought to pull air into his lungs but nothing was obeying him, everything was on fire. It hadn't been this bad since those first days in ICU when even thinking seemed to hurt, never mind breathing and forcing his lungs to expand the way the physiotherapist kept asking for.

Suddenly there were hands covering his, large and warm, squeezing tight so he had something to anchor with. Phil held onto them and concentrated on slowly breathing in, forcing his muscles to relax even though they wanted to contract tight around the pain. After a couple of minutes he felt the worst of it starting to recede and even though it hurt like hell to breathe slowly in and out it wasn't impossible anymore. The hands holding his loosened and Phil clutched convulsively for a moment before allowing one of the hands to withdraw.

The other hand moved until it was cradling Phil's, a thumb rubbing soothing circles on the back of Phil's wrist.

Something cool nudged his free hand and Phil reluctantly opened his eyes, looking down to where Clint was holding out a glass of water. He was uncomfortably aware that his eyes were damp and his sweatshirt was clinging to his sweaty skin even though he felt cold and shaky.

"Better?" Clint asked quietly.

"Better," Phil confirmed, his voice sounding thin and hoarse.

"Can I get you anything?"

"In the bathroom cabinet."

He couldn't see Clint's expression in the dim light, but he could almost feel the disapproving glare anyway.

"I didn't want the temptation of them just sitting next to me," he explained.

"Big tough guy, got to push through the pain?" Clint's voice held a note of gentle mockery. "You know it's not actually illegal to admit that you're hurting, right?"

Phil didn't have a chance to reply or protest; Clint stalked away before he could draw breath to speak and Phil immediately missed the warmth of Clint's hand around his. It seemed to take a while for Clint to find the pill bottle, which Phil was grateful for because it gave him time to regain some control. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, hissing as the motion pulled at something and threatened to reignite the pain his chest, and then he lay in the dark listening for Clint's footsteps.

When Clint returned, he was holding two bottles. He switched on the lamp beside Phil's bed and held them up. "I wasn't sure which one you'd want."

"The brown one," Phil said quietly and watched as Clint carefully shook out two small pills.

"Can you sit up?" Clint asked.

"I can try," Phil said.

Before he could do more than shift a little in the bed, Clint was there. Strong arms carefully lifted him up and then steadied him against Clint's chest while Clint rearranged pillows and then gently lowered him into a half-sitting position.

Phil couldn't decide whether to be annoyed or grateful for the help. There was a strange look in Clint's eyes that he couldn't interpret and it derailed any protest he might have made, leaving him slightly breathless. He put the breathlessness down to the aftereffects of the pain and held out a hand.

Clint wordlessly put the pills in his hand and then passed him the glass of water to wash them down with.

"Think you can sleep now?" Clint asked.

"Will you?"

Clint shrugged. He seemed unaware that he'd sat down on the edge of Phil's bed and put his hand on Phil's, his thumb stroking those soothing circles on Phil's wrist again.

"Do you ever sleep?" Phil asked.

"I get a bit," Clint said with another shrug. "I've never needed much."

Phil couldn't completely suppress his snort of disbelief and Clint looked up sharply, his frown softening when their eyes met.

"Yeah, okay, maybe I usually need more than I'm getting right now," Clint said. "It'll be fine, boss."

It was tempting to ask whether Clint was escaping from his own nightmares as well as trying to help Phil though his when Clint watched over him at night, but Phil knew he wouldn't get a real answer to that. All talking about it would do was chase Clint away and then Phil would have to face his own dreams alone.

Instead he turned his hand so he could grip and squeeze Clint's fingers, hoping Clint would read the message he was trying to wordlessly send.

Clint's fingers tightened on his for a moment. They didn't say anything else and after a minute Clint released Phil's hand and stood up. He turned off the lamp and padded to his chair in the corner where Phil could just see his outline and the glitter of his eyes in the moonlight.

Despite the jitters from the nightmare that was still too close, Phil felt exhaustion creeping up and dragging at his eyes. He was just on the edge of sleep when he heard Clint softly say goodnight and then he floated into dreamless darkness.

***

Clint slept that night, curled up awkwardly in the chair so that he woke up with a stiff neck and sore hips, but it was more sleep than he'd had in weeks. He woke up just as Coulson started to stir and for a moment he was tempted to hang around and watch Coulson wake up but then sense reasserted itself and he left.

Throughout his shower and quiet breakfast preparations, Clint worried at the dilemma of what he should say or do when he saw Coulson. They'd shared...something last night, something he didn't want to define, but in the light of day it all seemed too much.   
Too much emotion, too close to a truth he wasn't ready for.

Clint sliced bananas and strawberries without seeing them and listened to the sounds of Coulson moving around his bedroom, the cane thumping unevenly against the floor.

Then Coulson appeared in the kitchen door looking irritated and unkempt, still dressed in his sweatshirts and sleeping pants, and Clint was surprised by how calm he felt even though he'd been nervous a minute ago. They'd broken though some kind of barrier last night and it wasn't actually going to ruin everything. He thought it might actually start to make some things better instead.

"I need some help with this," Coulson said, plucking at his sweatshirt. "Can you...?"

Clint plastered on the most obnoxious grin he could muster and it seemed to work, the irritation fading away from Coulson's expression to be replaced with a look of sheepish embarrassment. They didn't talk as Clint carefully drew the sweater up and over Coulson's head, off his arms, trying not to hear the quiet hisses as they worked.

"Guess I'll be sticking to button downs for a while longer," Coulson said when the shirt was finally off.

"I could pick up some flannel PJs the next time I'm at the store," Clint said with a crooked grin. "I hear they're the thing with the cool guys."

Coulson rolled his eyes as he walked away and Clint, for once, felt a little lighter instead of sadder at the reminder of how things had changed.

He finished preparing breakfast with a smile on his face that he couldn't quite shift and actually managed a real laugh when Coulson poked at the fruit and grumbled. There was a warm bubble of something in Clint's chest because Coulson had asked him to help with the water dripping from his hair before they sat down to eat.

As they ate and talked about their plans, Clint realised that the feeling in his chest might actually be something close to happiness.

***

After that, they settled into a routine of sorts. Clint learned that Coulson was grumpy when he was tired or in pain or trying to pretend he wasn't bored and he was stubborn about asking for help, even when he was trying to do something that was clearly making him hurt. Not, Clint thought, because Coulson was expecting Clint to intuit that he needed the help. No, Coulson just didn't like having to rely on someone else and he wasn't happy that healing was taking time.

So Clint vacuumed while Coulson was showering and couldn't hear the machine going and he carried the laundry to the machine so Coulson could load it himself and complain when Clint lifted the big bottle of laundry detergent for him. They ate breakfast together quietly and Coulson prodded at the fruit Clint put out but he ate it anyway.

There was a regular stream of visitors, usually Pepper or Natasha or Sitwell, but on one memorable morning Steve appeared at the door with a stack of movies a vague excuse about needing someone to help him catch up on his cultural references. Clint smiled to himself and called Natasha while Coulson and Steve were debating which film to watch first so she could listen in to the conversation for a few minutes and laugh at how well her plan had worked.

Coulson went out walking in the neighbourhood every day, often accompanied by his visitor for the day which gave Clint the chance to do any other heavy jobs around the apartment he hadn't managed to do while Coulson was in the shower. Sometimes Coulson snapped irritably when he realised the beds had been changed while he was gone because he could absolutely flick around a few sheets (he couldn't), but that was usually because he was tired and hurting so Clint shrugged and carried on with whatever he was doing.

Every couple of days, Coulson insisted on walking to the deli for lunch with Clint and Clint could never say no. He enjoyed those walks, even though Coulson was usually tired and sore by the time they got home, because they were times when he could almost forget that the purpose behind them was to get Coulson stronger. Instead he could pretend this was something they did just to enjoy time together and warm sunshine and good food. 

Despite Coulson's frustration, Clint could see that the other man was gradually getting stronger with each day; he moved a little faster, he walked a little further each time they went out, and the pain lines around his mouth grew a little less pronounced.

At night they didn't talk but Clint moved his chair closer to the bed, into a brighter patch of moonlight, and Coulson smiled as he drifted to sleep. Sometimes Clint even slept for several hours after Coulson's inevitable nightmare.

***

Phil hissed as Reynes prodded at the incision over his sternum and she looked up with a raised eyebrow.

"Still tender?" she asked.

"Only when I poke it," Phil said.

She grinned and began carefully lifting and flexing his left arm, making quiet 'hmm' noises each time he grunted. When the examination was over, she let him dress and he felt her watching as he carefully slid on his shirt and started buttoning it.

"You know, for a guy who nearly died on the operating table a couple of times not that long ago, you look pretty good," Reynes said with a wide grin. "You've been keeping up with your shoulder mobilisation?"

"Of course," Phil said. "And I've been following your walking plan. Clint...Barton's keeping me on that diet sheet you gave him - mostly - and I've even been sleeping."

"You're a model patient," Reynes said as she scribbled something in her chart. "If only the rest of my patients were this good."

Phil decided not to tuck his shirt in for once. He was wearing jeans and Clint rolled his eyes every time he thought Phil looked too tidy for a guy on sick leave. The fact that it still made his chest ache uncomfortably to tuck the shirt in without unbuttoning his pants was irrelevant, he told himself.

"When can I get back to work?" he asked.

Reynes burst out laughing. "Not for another couple of months at least."

"Not even desk duty?"

"In this organisation?" Reynes shook her head, her eyes still dancing with humour. "Not even desk duty. How is Agent Barton doing?"

The abrupt change of subject took Phil by surprise and he didn't entirely manage to hide his worry before Reynes saw his expression.

"That bad?" she asked.

"He's sleeping more than he was a week ago," Phil said thoughtfully. "Helping me out seems to be giving him something to focus on."

"Let me guess, you hate asking for help even though he volunteered and you know it's helpful for him, but he makes you let him help anyway."

"Something like that," Phil admitted. "It's not easy."

"None of this will be. Is he talking to anyone?"

"That's where he is at the moment. Counselling and assessment to see whether he's ready for active duty again."

"Do you think he is?"

Phil sighed. "No. Not by a long way."

"Well, you aren't either so you make a good pair," Reynes said with a grin.

***

Clint was still in with the psychologist when Phil finished in medical. He couldn't decide whether that was a good sign or not and he was considering taking a walk to his office to wait - and maybe check on a few things - when he spotted a SHIELD guard standing patiently by the elevators, watching him.

Phil sighed to himself and allowed the guard to drive him home because there was no use arguing. The man was probably there under Fury's orders to make sure Phil didn't accidentally try to do some work while he was in the building.

He cheered up a bit when he found Pepper waiting outside his apartment door with two large cups from the good coffee shop down the street. Her jeans and blazer meant she'd blocked out the rest of the day to visit with him and had no intention of going back to the office, but she was wearing high heels and jewellery so she was probably meeting someone - Stark - for supper after.

"Natasha called me," Pepper said as he unlocked the door. "She thought you'd like some company for the afternoon while Agent Barton is stuck in headquarters."

Phil led the way into the living room and sank down onto his sofa with a tired sigh. On the one hand, he wasn't as tired and sore as he had been a week ago. On the other hand, he hated that a morning of medical tests and a little bit of walking had exhausted him.

"Is that really coffee or are you just torturing me?" Phil asked, eyeing the paper cups.

Pepper grinned. "Real coffee."

"Thank god," Phil said, reaching for his cup immediately and ignoring the sharp tug across his chest because just smelling coffee made him feel better. "I've missed this."

"That's what Natasha told me." Pepper carefully removed the lid from her cup and sipped. "She said Agent Barton is driving you insane with vegetables and you're both being too stubborn to talk about anything important."

Phil made a face. "Why did we ever let you two meet each other?"

Pepper shrugged. "Sometimes SHIELD knows what they're doing. So, how is Agent Barton?" 

***

"Kale or spinach?"

There was a short silence and then Clint heard Natasha sigh into the phone. "Have you finally lost your mind?"

"It's an important question," he protested, shoving the phone between his ear and his shoulder so he could hold up bunches of leafy vegetables. "Is Coulson a spinach kind of guy or kale?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Eh, I'll get both," he decided. "Maybe I can get him onto kale chips, that's got to be worth a try."

"Clint, why are you debating Coulson's vegetable preferences with me?"

He pushed the cart one-handed down the aisle and stopped by the crates filled with brightly coloured bell peppers. "Because you called me while I was getting groceries."

"And you're trying to kill him with intense nutrition because..."

"Tasha, he nearly died," Clint said before he could stop the words.

"And you think you can stop that happening again if you feed him right?" There was another soft sigh over the line. "How's the martyr plan going, anyway?"

"I'm not..." Clint groaned and threw two red peppers blindly into his cart before pushing on. "It isn't a martyr thing. Coulson needed someone to help him out for a couple of weeks. I'm at a loose end until psych signs off on me so I was the logical choice for doing this."

"And it's got nothing to do with your crippling levels of guilt manifesting in a rash of self-sacrifice and vegetable obsession?"

"No," Clint said firmly.

He ignored the voice at the back of his mind that pointed out how many times he'd admitted to himself exactly what Natasha was accusing him of. Or the memory of the SHIELD psychologist who had also said the same thing, in slightly more professional technobabblish words.

"You know he doesn't blame you, don't you?"

Clint stayed silent for a long moment, pretending to himself that a decision between full fat and low fat sour cream was the most important thing he could focus on. Natasha let him think for a while and her silent support, even over a phone line, somehow made him feel calmer than the psychologist's faux sincerity had done. He tossed the full fat tub into his cart and walked slowly down the store.

"Are you sure about that?" he asked eventually.

"You're the only person blaming you for what happened. The only person. You didn't shove a spear through his heart-"

"Not through his heart. It was a millimetre off."

"Semantics," Natasha said firmly. "A millimetre here or there only makes a difference to surgeons. You didn't do that."

"I didn't hold the spear in my hand and shove it in but it wouldn't have happened at all if I-"

"It would have happened, Clint. That's what you don't seem to get, all of this would have happened whether you were there or not. It would probably have been much worse if Loki had taken someone else. You were fighting it all the way. That's why the Helicarrier is still flying, why Fury isn't dead: you were fighting Loki every step."

Clint had to stop and lean over the handlebar of his cart. His breath seemed to be catching on something tight and hot in his chest and he couldn't suck in enough air. He closed his eyes and concentrated on just breathing, not really aware of the soft Russian curses in his ear until he realised it was Natasha's voice he was using to keep the panic and pain at bay and she was starting to sound worried.

"Clint, are you there? Shit, talk to me," he head Natasha say before she cursed in Russian again. "Tell me you're ok before I make some calls and send a team down there. Come on, I can hear you and you don't sound good."

He swallowed and somehow managed to pull in a lungful of air despite the tight band around his chest. Another breath and another and he could speak.

"I'm fine," he said. "Tasha, don't send anyone, I'm fine."

There was a pause and then a string of vicious Russian curses. Clint surprised himself by chucking and when he raised his head and looked at the shelves in front of him the chuckle turned into a laugh. Not a hysterical, roll around on the floor kind of laugh, just an 'ok, this is actually kind of humorous' laugh.

"What's so funny?" Natasha asked with an air of exasperation in her voice. "Or do I need to call that team in and tell them you're having some kind of breakdown in the middle of a fucking grocery store?"

"It's not...I'm not having a breakdown," Clint said. "I'm standing in front of a rack of pyjamas covered with tiny Tony Starks."

"Are you sure you're not having a breakdown?"

"No shit, there are actual pyjamas covered in little Iron Man heads. And Captain America shields. And...Nat, there are PJs with your sting bracelets and my arrows on. That is fucking weird."

"You should see the action figures marketing sent me for approval," Natasha said. "You look like Ken with a bad dye job."

"Do you think they had all this stuff ready to go? I mean, it's not even been a month yet and there are already pyjamas in the grocery store."

"They're trying to make us soft and cuddly for the public, I'm pretty sure they had this stuff ready six months ago and they've just been itching to get it out."

Clint picked up one of the packages and checked the label. Most of the pyjamas were actually just standard plain or chequered items, only one shelf was Avengers-themed, but there were adult sets as well as ones for kids and he was suddenly incredibly tempted. It would either make Coulson smile or be cranky.

"I'm buying a set," Clint said. "For Coulson."

"The Cap shields? He'll love them when he's got over being mortified."

"Maybe. But I was actually thinking about the Iron Man ones."

There was a short pause and then he heard Natasha whistle, low and impressed. "I take it back, you're not a martyr. You're on a suicide mission."

***

Phil stared at the packages of pyjamas displayed on his bed and he had to laugh. Three of the sets were chequered or plain - exactly what he would have picked out - and one set was...

There was no other way to think about it, one set was the most obnoxious pair of Iron Man pyjamas he'd ever seen (and he'd seen a few designs, Stark was surprisingly popular) and for some reason they made him laugh. The tiny red and gold heads interspersed with "Iron Man!" on a star-spangled bright blue background were hideous. Laughing made his chest hurt and Phil had to grab a heart pillow to hold against his chest and sit down so his sternum didn't feel like it was about to split apart, but laughing also felt surprisingly good.

Somehow the pain didn't feel as crushing when laughter kept bubbling up no matter how hard he tried to swallow it down.

He didn't hear the sound of Clint's footsteps over his laughter. Clint just appeared in the doorway looking intensely worried, which made Phil laugh more and clutch his pillow tighter. Then a slow smile spread across Clint's lips and he started laughing as well.

"Guess I made the right call on the pyjamas," Clint said when he could speak around his giggles.

There was honest, real humour in Clint's eyes. Not a trace of the unhappy guilt Phil had almost grown used to seeing there and that alone made the eyesore clothing worth it.

"They're the ugliest things I've ever seen," Phil said, trying to pretend he wasn't wheezing slightly.

"I should have got the ones they've done for me and Nat," Clint said. "They're even worse."

"You have pyjamas?"

"And plastic cups," Clint said, still grinning. "We think marketing had them waiting in a warehouse just in case."

"I wouldn't be surprised. Rumours about the Initiative have been going around for the last couple of years." A look crossed Clint's face, just for a moment, but Phil recognised it. "You were always on Fury's list for the team, you know, even before everything else happened."

Clint shrugged and looked away. There was suddenly tension in the air, a wary tension that made Phil's head hurt.

"You're still on his list," Phil said. "He isn't going to change his mind about you."

"You sure about that?" Clint asked with a bitter smile.

"Yes."

"It's as simple as that? I get cleared for active duty one day and I'm on the happy media-friendly superhero team?"

It was like standing on a ledge, looking down at something dark and dangerous, knowing that there was a way to safe ground but one wrong step would send him into the abyss. They had been carefully edging around this for days. Talking around it, not mentioning it, pretending everything was fine and Phil was only one affected by Loki's plans.

Pretending Clint wasn't just as badly scarred because his hurts couldn't be seen in huge red gashes on his skin.

Phil took a careful breath to clear out the last of the laughter and looked at Clint steadily.

"None of this was your fault," he said. "The only person blaming you for what happened is you. Do you blame Doctor Selvig for building the device that let Loki open the portal?"

There was no response except for Clint shifting uncomfortably.

"You've seen the numbers," Phil continued. "Hundreds died."

"I got him the materials," Clint said quietly. "I planned the attack on the Helicarrier. Loki would never...if I hadn't done all of that, Selvig wouldn't have been able to open the portal and I didn't do a damn thing to stop it."

"You really think that?" Phil asked. "Director Fury is alive because you shot him where you knew he had protection. The Helicarrier is still in the air because you bought us enough time to repair it. I know you don't believe it yet, but you were fighting every bit as hard as Doctor Selvig was and what you did made a difference."

Clint had wrapped his arms around his chest while Phil spoke, his eyes still focused on a patch of floor just beside Phil's feet. The muscles in his jaw flexed and Phil could see him swallow a couple of times even though his face stayed carefully blank.

"Why do you keep being so kind about it?" Clint asked eventually, almost too softly for Phil to hear. "Look at you, you've got half your chest held together with bits of wire and I can see how much it hurts every day. And you keep being kind to me even though I know you hate being like this."

He waved a hand vaguely, the gesture taking in the cane and the injuries and the nest of pillows Phil had collected on his bed to help him find a position he could sleep in.

"Because none of this is your fault," Phil said calmly. "I'm angry with my body because it's not healing as fast as I want it to, but I'm not angry with _you_. Loki is the one who stabbed me, that's who I blame for all of this because _he's_ the one who did it. Not you, never you."

"I want believe you." Clint raised his eyes, still not quite meeting Phil's but at least getting closer to looking at Phil's face. "I'm trying. Nat and the shrink said the same thing. I just...it's easy for you to say this isn't my fault. I just can't seem to feel it. I think it was easier when I couldn't feel anything."

"Sometimes I think everything would be easier if we never felt anything," Phil said. "Half the problems of the world would go away if we didn't feel."

"Yeah, life would be a lot simpler."

"And dull," Phil added. "If we don't feel the bad things then we can't feel the good things either and sometimes it's those good things that make all the painful things worth it."

There was a long, thoughtful silence and then Clint's lips quirked into a crooked grin. "You got that off a Hallmark card, didn't you?"

"One of those self-help books Hill keeps giving me as gag gifts at Christmas," Phil corrected with a completely straight face.

Clint cleared his throat and straightened up from the slouch he'd adopted as he leaned against the door jamb. "Do you want some of that tea Bruce left yesterday? He said it was soothing, it might help you to sleep."

"Only if you make some for yourself," Phil said.

"It's a deal."

Clint turned away and paused. With his back to the bedroom, he said, "Thank you."

Then he hurried away and Phil let out a slow sigh. He felt almost shaky with released tension and he realised after a moment that he'd been clutching the heart pillow so tightly his fingers had started to cramp. That wasn't important, though. Right now his discomfort didn't even register. Somehow he'd negotiated all the dangers hidden deep in Clint's mind, all the pain Clint had been drowning in for weeks, and he thought they might actually have found a path to somewhere safer. Phil wasn't under any illusion that Clint was suddenly going to be fine now with no more descents back into his guilt and despair, but there was a sense of hope now that maybe they'd been through the worst of it.

That maybe from here Clint would be able to fight the fear and pain he'd been living with and he'd start winning.


	4. Chapter 4

Phil dreamt in shades of grey and blue.

He dreamed in the confusing way of dreams, feeling as though he was both inside and standing apart from what happened. Flashes of blue cut through the soft, grey landscape around him and nothing was familiar except that sometimes it _felt_ familiar. There was something waiting for him somewhere in the dreamscape but he couldn't remember what it was or where he needed to be.

He dreamed of cruel, mocking laughter and a hot anger that burned in his chest, almost strong enough to overwhelm the burning pain in his chest as blue light speared him again and again.

***

Clint was in that fuzzy space just before sleep when a soft sound pulled him back to full awareness. He was stiff and sore from sitting in the chair in Coulson's bedroom but his eyes were drawn immediately to the bed where Coulson was awake and watching him.

The moon was bright and high, streaming in through the open window. It gave everything an unreal silvery glow that should have hidden Coulson's expression except it didn't. Coulson's face became a map of bright skin and sharp shadows. For once Clint could read Coulson and he swallowed hard at what he saw there.

Gratitude. Worry. Hunger.

All directed at Clint with an intensity that took his breath away.

"What do you dream about?" Coulson asked, his voice still rough and sleepy. 

Clint sat up straighter, trying not to grunt when stiff muscles protested. His first instinct was defensive, to ask Coulson why he wanted to know, but he swallowed down the words.

"I don't know," he said quietly. "I don't remember my dreams. Just how I feel."

"How do you feel?"

He paused for a beat, fighting the temptation to run and never stop. "Lost. Out of control. Afraid."

Coulson deserved the truth even if Clint couldn't do anything else for him. For the last two days the nagging memory of Coulson patiently admitting he was angry, but never with Clint, had invaded Clint's thoughts whenever he wasn't completely focused on whatever he was doing. It was like having a video in his head on permanent rerun. He wasn't even sure now whether it was his stupid, hopeful imagination that had made him see a hint of something more than just warm affection in Coulson's expression or whether it had been real.

Looking at Coulson now, Clint felt a tiny shiver of hope that maybe, maybe he hadn't imagined it after all.

"What do you dream about?" Clint asked.

There was a long pause but Clint waited patiently, sensing that it was important to give Coulson time to think and reach the same decision he'd made about being honest.

"Colours," Coulson said eventually. "At first, everything I saw was mostly in blue. Like having a gel filter over my eyes. Now everything is grey and cold except there's something just in the corner of my eye that flashes blue and then I wake up."

"Blue like Loki's spear?"

"Exactly like Loki's spear."

"Your dreams sound frightening."

Coulson's hesitation this time was shorter. Not thinking time, not that exactly, more like he was steeling himself for something. The way his shoulders shifted and he pulled at the cuffs of his pyjama shirt were almost the same as the way he straightened his jacket when he was uncomfortable. A fond smile twitched at the corners of Clint's mouth and he fought it down.

"They were terrifying at first. Now they're just disturbing," Coulson said slowly, his eyes never leaving Clint's, "because you're always here waiting for me when I wake up."

All the air suddenly seemed to get sucked out of the room and Clint couldn't breathe. He felt hot and cold all at once; his face felt like it was burning while the rest of his body was so chilled he was surprised he wasn't shivering. This was an entirely new kind of guilt and fear and he didn't know what to do with it. They never talked about this, about the nights he spent here and why he did it.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, but all that emerged was a strangled, "Oh."

"Why is that?" Coulson asked. "I know it can't all be your misguided guilt. Why are you always here, Clint?"

It was the use of his first name that finally shook Clint out of his paralysis. It sounded strange in Coulson's voice and at the same time it sounded right and good, taking on far more meaning than a simple name should.

Because this was Coulson saying his name and Clint had always hoped to hear that and never let himself believe that it would happen.

He stood up and felt Coulson's eyes on him as he moved across the room, eyes that suddenly seemed to see a lot more than Clint had known they could and yet Coulson didn't look away. The urge to run clawed at Clint's mind but he fought it down and sat down on the edge of Coulson's bed, not touching him but close enough that he could feel the warmth of Coulson's body through the sheets.

Reading Coulson's expression was more difficult now. The moon was still bright but the light seemed different, more diffuse, and it hid as much as it showed. Fear and nerves fluttered in Clint's gut and made his hands shake. Twisting around to place his hands on either side of Coulson's chest was as much about stopping the nervous twitches as finding a way to balance over him.

Everything suddenly became very still and quiet. Clint could hear his pulse thundering in his ears as he leaned down and slowly, carefully, so very carefully, brushed his lips over Coulson's in a dry kiss.

A whisper of warm air touched Clint's cheek as Coulson sighed. The brief contact of their kiss was enough for Clint to register that Coulson's lips were warm and his stubble scratched Clint's skin in just the right way. He wanted more, so much more, but he drew back and sat up.

The impact of what he'd done crashed down and the nervous fluttering in his stomach curdled into sick worry. Clint started to pull away but Coulson's hand shot out to wrap around his forearm and stop him. His bare skin tingled and warmed where they touched and Coulson tightened his grip, clutching with what Clint might have read in anyone else as desperation.

Meeting Coulson's gaze felt like one of the hardest things Clint had ever done but he did it and what he read there was everything he'd always longed for and more. He couldn't speak or do anything except sit pinned by Coulson's gaze and the hand still tight around his arm.

His face must have shown his confused hope because after a long, breathless moment Coulson nodded. Just a small movement, barely more than a twitch, but it told Clint that they were both feeling this and they both wanted this. He hadn't been imagining anything.

Clint breathed out a sigh that was almost a sob and leaned down to kiss Coulson again, kiss him hard and fast and desperate this time. There wasn't a hint of hesitation as Coulson returned the kiss, biting and sucking at Clint's lips and then opening his mouth to let Clint sweep his tongue in.

It was a kiss filled with promise and need, the kind of kiss that Clint had always thought happened in movies and not in real life. His arms shook with the effort of holding himself up so he didn't crush Coulson's healing ribs even while he tried to press as close as he could. He felt Coulson's hand release its grip on his arm and then there was a hand at the back of his head, burying in his hair and pulling him down so he couldn't escape Coulson's kiss. 

Not that he wanted to escape, never, not even when his breath started to come in short, desperate pants and he began to feel light-headed.

It took a real effort to tear away so that he could draw in huge gulps of air and Clint could feel Coulson breathing just as harshly. A pained hiss made Clint rear back so he could see Coulson's face.

"Did I-?" he asked vaguely.

Coulson's smile was rueful. "No, you didn't. I forgot my limitations for a moment. An amazing, wonderful moment so stop thinking whatever you're thinking."

Clint swallowed and very quietly said, "Oh."

The hand that had been in Clint's hair had dropped when he pulled away and Coulson couldn't seem to decide where to put his hands now. It was an unexpected sign of nervousness and Clint couldn't help smiling as Coulson finally settled for resting one hand on the bed just beside Clint's thigh while his other hand fisted in the sheet.

"I love you, Clint," Coulson said slowly and deliberately. "Before you start worrying about anything else, I love you."

"Really?"

"Really." A gentle smile softened Coulson's face. "I think I've loved you for a long time but I never hoped you'd feel the same. It always seemed like an impossible dream."

There was a hard lump lodging in Clint's throat and it took him a couple of tries before he managed to swallow and say, "You loving me seems like the dream. I don't know why you would. I'm a screwed up mess most of the time."

"You're intelligent, kind, and so beautiful I can't keep my eyes off you," Coulson said fiercely. "You try to do the right thing even when it's hard to see what the right thing is and then you hurt and try to take on all the guilt and blame if it goes wrong. Because you're a good person, Clint, even when you can't see it."

"When you say it like that, I sound like some kind of saint." Clint tried to put humour into his voice but he could hear the way his voice cracked. "I'm just me, nothing special."

"Special to me," Coulson said. "And that's what counts right now."

"I wasn't watching you sleep," Clint said. "That wasn't...me being here wasn't some weird and creepy stalker shit."

"I never thought it was."

"I kept thinking, you probably wouldn't want to see me but I wanted to keep you safe. So I just hung around in a corner where nobody would try to throw me out and I could make sure nothing happened to you until you were better. And you didn't throw me out or ask me to stop so I just...didn't. Stop, I mean."

"I've been grateful every night for that."

Clint smiled crookedly. "I love you. I can't remember what it's like knowing you and not loving you, I've been doing it for so long."

Now it was Coulson who seemed to be lost for words, struggling to speak and staring up at Clint with an expression that was almost too intense to look at. Clint raised a hand and cupped Coulson's jaw, feeling the stubble prickle against his palm as Coulson sighed and leaned into the touch.

"I wish I'd done this a long time ago," Clint said.

Coulson smiled. "Watched over me?"

"Kissed you."

He leaned down to demonstrate with a tender, achingly sweet kiss that seemed to last forever and end far too quickly. They weren't panting with need this time when he drew back but Clint still felt oddly breathless.

"You can do that whenever you want," Coulson said with a smile. "Now that we've started, I might not be able to stop, though."

Clint raised an eyebrow. "Is that a bad thing?"

"Kissing you is amazing," Coulson said solemnly, "but my ribs don't seem to agree."

"Oh."

"We might need to get a little bit creative until everything has healed properly." The serious expression Coulson's face made Clint grin. "You could start by taking off your pants and sleeping with me for the rest of the night."

The words and expression combined to make Clint's other eyebrow lift while heat suddenly flooded his body.

"Coulson, I-"

"You've kissed me, I think we can use first names when we're like this." There was a beat and then, "Clint."

It had the same effect as last time, hearing his name on Coulson's - Phil's - lips and Clint struggled to draw air for a moment. Phil turned his head so he could press a kiss on Clint's palm.

"Sleep in my bed tonight," Phil said softly. "I'm not asking for anything else, just sleep and you. It will be purely platonic."

"I don't think anything with you will ever be platonic again," Clint said. "Not if you keep kissing me and talking to me."

"Alright, we'll non-platonically sleep tonight and I'll try not to kiss you again until the morning." Phil's teeth grazed the skin just below Clint's thumb. "And maybe then we can start working out what I can do to keep you occupied until I'm healed."

All the air whooshed out of Clint's lungs as another wave of heat rolled over him and he spluttered for a moment. "Jesus fuck, Phil, you can't say shit like that."

There was a hint of wicked amusement in Phil's eyes, letting Clint know that Phil knew exactly what effect he was having and it was all deliberate. An effort to turn the serious mood into something lighter, something more relaxed, and it was working.

"I think I can say shit like that whenever I want," Phil said, "particularly if you keep looking at me like that."

Clint pulled his hand away before Phil could do anything else to it. He was already feeling confined in his jeans and he didn't need the problem to get worse.

"You're sure about this?" Clint asked.

"I've never been so sure of anything in my life," Phil said firmly. "Now strip and get into bed."

"You're not helping," Clint grumbled.

He stood up anyway and hesitated for a moment before deciding that if Phil was determined about this, he could deal with seeing the consequences of what he'd been saying. There was nothing Phil wouldn't see eventually anyway and Clint bit his lip when that thought went through his mind. He eased his jeans off carefully, pulling his socks off as he stepped out of the pants so that he was standing in just his t-shirt and boxer briefs. 

Phil's quiet, appreciative sigh made Clint turn and give him a quick grin before crawling across the bed and sliding between the sheets. He had to help Phil shift pillows and carefully ease into a comfortable position and he didn't mind because Phil seemed quite happy for Clint's fingers to slip under the hem of his pyjama shirt while he helped. Eventually they found a way to lie together comfortably with Clint taking the place of half of Phil's pillows, their legs tangled together.

It was oddly soothing even though Phil's warmth was sending tingling signals through Clint's body. He reached down and twined his fingers with Phil's, holding onto Phil's hand as an anchor against everything that had haunted his sleep for weeks.

"Is this really happening?" he whispered after a couple of minutes. "Is this real?"

There was a sleepy yawn and then Phil said, "Yes, Clint, it's real."

"You may need to remind me tomorrow."

"I'll be happy to remind you as many times as it takes. Go to sleep now, I'll be here when you wake up."

Phil's breathing evened out into the soft rhythm of sleep almost immediately. Clint lay awake for a while, listening to him and feeling the warmth where their skin touched. For the first time in a long time, he thought he might actually be happy.

When sleep finally claimed him, there was a soft smile on his lips and he didn't release Phil's hand all night.


End file.
